A Time for Everything
by Simone Lyon
Summary: A story mainly about Carter and Newkirk's friendship, and my own take on an ending for our Heroes.


A TIME FOR EVERYTHING

"Just get out of here, Corporal! Now!"

Newkirk did not think twice, but grabbed Carter's collar and began to run. Carter stumbled up, but was finding it hard to manage keeping up with the Englishman. There were other shots fired. Then, Newkirk stopped, and pushed Carter in front of him. Carter was momentarily touched by the display of protection, but had little time to think about it, as he was being pushed forward by Newkirk's steady hand.

He jumped over a log, with Newkirk following, and then they ran up a hill, out of the woods. From there, it was hilly fields for about two hundred yards to the beach, and the North Sea. Carter felt relief rush through him.

_Almost there._

Newkirk came up beside him, and for a moment, they stood upon the hilltop looking at the serene view of the moon shining upon the beach and sea. Then, more gun shots urged them on. Newkirk grabbed his arm and pulled him along. When they came to the bottom of the hill, Newkirk tripped, but let go of Carter so as not to bring down the Tech Sergeant as well.

Carter halted a few feet away from Newkirk and turned back. He jogged quickly back, and grabbed Newkirk's wrist, to help him up. But he stopped.

Newkirk's hand was stained with the slimy fluid, and the smell filled Carter's nostrils, making him grimace. Carter pulled his own hand back quickly, and peered at the sticky substance on it. It was not the first time he had seen blood, but the fact that it came from his good friend shocked him more. He brought his hand down, and looked at Newkirk, who had pulled himself up, and was leaning against Carter some. He had his hand back over his stomach, where the bullet wound was. Blood filled the blue sweater, and Carter could see the white shirt underneath, also stained profusely with blood.

"Peter," asked Carter in an urgent whisper.

Newkirk looked at him, and smiled. He grabbed Carter's arm, and they began to run again.

Carter could no longer solely concentrate on getting to the sea. He was distracted by Newkirk, who, despite his horrible wound, was going along as well as Carter. His breath was rasping and short, he stumbled more, but he was always holding onto Carter, who was never letting him fall.

As they came onto the beach, Carter became acutely aware that bullets were no longer following them, though shots in the distance behind them could still be heard. After discovering this, Carter wondered no more about it, simply and happily accepting the welcomed fact. On the beach, they halted, both men utterly exhausted. They sank to their knees, leaning on one another. Carter winced when Newkirk put an arm around his shoulders, touching his own wound, where a bullet had caught his upper shoulder. His head was pounding more than ever, and since they had stopped, he was now more aware of it. Newkirk took his arm away, and then went on all fours. He stared at the sand, breathing in one shaky breath after another. Carter just watched, wanting to do something, but unsure of what. The only thing he could think of was to put an arm around Newkirk's shaking shoulders.

"Peter," he said. "We can make it."

Newkirk leaned back on his knees, and looked at Carter. He winked. Then, he began to stand. Carter helped him up, but almost fell over himself, as a wave of nausea came over him. He turned away from Newkirk in case he really would spill the contents of his stomach.

"Andrew," asked Newkirk, concerned.

Carter swallowed, and turned back.

"I'm fine," he said. "Just a little dizzy."

"Well," croaked Newkirk. "I sure 'ope you don't get sea sick."

Carter smiled weakly and shook his head. "I plan on collapsin' anyway."

Newkirk nodded. "Me too, mate, me too."

They stood still for a moment, leaning against one another, and looking out at the sea. Then, Carter broke the comfortable silence of companionship.

"What now," he asked.

"Oh, right," said Newkirk, fumbling with his pack. "The flashlight."

He pulled a flashlight from their sack, which Carter had completely forgotten about in their long ordeal.

"C'mon," said Newkirk. He began to walk forward, and Carter went with him.

As they walked to the crashing waves, he thought about what they must look like. Two men in uniform, wet, cold, bleeding, and leaning on each other. They stumbled so that their sandy paths were twisted and meandering. Carter smiled briefly at the many times he remembered the Colonel calling his men a ragtag crew of gentlemen. Carter sighed…just a little bit longer, and they would all be back together. But this time, safely tucked away in London, where they would finally be able to relax.

They stopped just outside the way of the waves. Newkirk flashed Morse code into the dark void. They waited with baited breath. Time ticked on so long, and Carter thought he stood there for ages waiting for the reply. But then, only a few moments later, the flickering response came. Newkirk and Carter breathed a sigh of deep relief. Newkirk started to sit back down, but Carter held him up.

"Not yet, Peter," he said. "Not yet. You wait until they get here. Listen, you dragged me all through Germany to get here, and you're not backin' out on me now. Got it Corporal? 'Cause that's an order."

Newkirk looked at him, his head cocked sideways and his eyes big and blurry.

"Yes, sah," muttered Newkirk, and his eyelids began to droop. But he blinked and shook his head, and tried to stand up straighter.

Carter looked down at the wound. He cursed himself for not thinking about it earlier. He pulled off the scarf LeBeau had given him for the trip, and tied it around Newkirk's torso, covering the wound. Then, he took off his belt and strapped it tightly over the scarf to apply more pressure. Newkirk winced, but nodded in thanks. Carter just patted his shoulder.

A strange sound began to fill his ears. He looked up, alert. Newkirk heard it as well, and they began to wildly look around. Their guns long gone, they put their backs to one another, to watch out for the other. Then, they realized the noise was coming from the sea. They looked out, and saw the flickering lights again. Then, a small motorboat came into view. They looked at one another, and then back at the boat.

"Can I sit now," asked Newkirk, smiling weakly.

"No," answered Carter, even though he knew Newkirk was joking. "Not until we're in the boat."

"Right," said Newkirk. He sighed. "In the boat."

They waited rather patiently for two men who had been waiting for this very moment for years. The motor boat came up to the waves, and the three seamen aboard jumped out, and dragged it to up to the beach. Then, they came up to Carter and Newkirk.

"You the Cubs we're supposed to pick up," one asked.

"I sure hope so," said Carter.

Newkirk rolled his eyes. "Don't mind 'im. O' course we bloody well are the Cubs. I'm Corporal Peter Newkirk, and this 'ere--and somewhat not all 'ere--is Sergeant Andrew Carter. Ring a bell?"

"Yeah," grumbled one of the seamen. "You're our Cubs. You're the last two, so we were told. Apparently your other pals are quite worried about you. You're thirty minutes late you know."

"We had some trouble along the way," said Carter. "And as you can see, we didn't come through clean. So, can't we just get aboard, before we collapse where we stand?"

Newkirk blinked at Carter. "Cor, mate…you just keep pullin' rank."

Carter shrugged. "Only when I have to."

Newkirk smiled.

The seamen just looked at one another, lost.

"Well," said one. "Come on."

Newkirk and Carter gladly stepped into the boat. They got on stern of the boat, and sat down against the side. Newkirk leaned on the corner, and Carter on him. Carter laid his head on Newkirk's shoulder, and Newkirk laid his head on Carter's. The seamen pushed the vessel off the beach, and a few moments later, they were cruising away from Germany.

"We made it," said Carter, as he tried to fight sleep. "We made it Peter."

"Yea, Andrew," whispered Newkirk. "We did."

Carter looked up at Newkirk, hinting sadness in the Englishman's voice.

"What's wrong," he asked.

"Nothin' really," said Newkirk. "I'm just tired." He looked down at Carter, and then took Carter's face into his bloody hands, looking into the blue eyes of his younger brother. Carter was confused, for Newkirk's eyes were filled with a deep sadness. "I'm sorry."

Carter was confused.

"For what," he asked.

"For everything," answered Newkirk. "For every bad word I've ever called you, for every time I made fun of you, for every time I blew you off, or every time I snapped at you…I'm sorry for all of it…Andrew, will you forgive me?"

Carter smiled. "I already have, buddy. I thought you knew." Carter might have laughed at the astonished look on Newkirk's face, if it had been any other time. Instead, he just smiled, and shook his head.

"I really thought you knew," he repeated.

Then, Newkirk pulled him into the most fiercest hug he could ever remember getting from anyone, even someone in his own family. Newkirk held him, shaking. Carter had the feeling that Newkirk thought he would lose him if he let go. So, he hugged Newkirk back. Then, they broke away, and curled up against one another as before, and drifted off to sleep.

***** ***** *****

Carter struggled to open his eyes. He was still comfortable and could easily go back to sleep. But he felt that had been asleep long enough, and it was time to come back to the world. When his eyes finally did open, he found it was too bright to hold them open long. He shut them back, and then tried again, this time squinting. As his eyes slowly adjusted to the light, he concentrated on the voices around him.

But they were not of people he knew, just others, talking about things he did not know of. Then, he became aware of his surroundings, and found that he was in a large room, or hall of sorts. It reminded him of a church, with the large windows, and tall ceiling. Slowly sitting up, he saw that he was actually in a large hospital room, with many other wounded soldiers.

A nurse quickly approached him.

"Oh good, yore awake," she said. She went to the beside and poured a glass of water. "Here, drink this, luv."

Carter quickly took a grateful sip. He sighed, and handed the water back to her.

She smiled. "Are you hungry?"

Carter thought about it. "No, not really. Maybe in a little bit."

"Of course," she said. "Oh, and as for your friends, they left just a little while ago. They did not want to, but it seems they had to be debriefed. They asked me to tell you they would be straight back, as soon as they could."

"That's great," said Carter. "So they're all okay?'

"Yes," she said, nodding enthusiastically. "I am not entirely sure why you and yore friends are so special, but I am told to take great care with you."

Carter chuckled. "Listen, if it was one of my friends who told you that, you can ignore them. I seem to be _right as rain_ as one of them would say. But now that I know they're okay, you think I could have some of that food now?"

The nurse smiled. "Of course. I will be back shortly."

She hurried off.

A few minutes later, she returned with a tray with a turkey sandwich on white bread, with mayonnaise. She offered to put tomatoes and lettuce on it, if it was filling enough, and then set down a cool glass of milk and a bowl of some kind of corn soup.

"Is that enough," she asked.

Carter looked at her, astonished. "This is more than enough. Thank you…very much. By the way, my name is Andrew Carter, Sergeant. What's your name?"

"Sarah McClain," she responded. "I'm to be yore nurse while you're here. And do they not feed you well out there?" She smirked.

But Carter shook his head. "Oh, no. You see, my friends and I were in a P.O.W. camp. White bread was a privilege or reward, and even then it had sawdust in it. And turkey…well, we had a chef in our barracks, but we never got turkey. It was usually some kind of chicken. And we only got that when it was some kind of holiday. Of course, we made up a few, just to keep our stomachs happy. Still, they told us turkey was in that weird soup they gave us, but nobody believed them for a second. Now corn…I haven't had corn since I was shot down, two years ago. And that soup sure looks a lot more filling than any soup they gave us back there. The soup there was always watery…and cold. Milk too. Actually, I don't think I've had much milk since I left home, and that was three years ago. So, you see, this is the most amazing meal I think I've had in awhile, thought Louie's--that's the French chef that was in my barracks--were always pretty good. Don't ask him about it, though, or he just won't shut up…kinda like I'm doin' right now."

He smiled at Sarah, who had listened with baited breath the whole time.

"Oh, no," she said. "I had no clue. We don't get many prisoners of war around here. This floor was strictly set up for people who came from the front. I know that on other floors, that is where they help prisoners get back into the swing of things. But, you did seem to have been in some kind of battle when you came in."

"Well," said Carter. "My friend and I did run into a bit of trouble along the way. But, we're here now…so, it doesn't bother me much. Not to mention, we did get ourselves in and out of a good many scrapes before that. That's really all I can tell you."

"I understand," she said, with a sharp nod. "Classified." Carter nodded, and took a bite out of his sandwich. "So, which one did you escape with? It sounds as if you did not all come together."

Carter swallowed and drank some milk. "No. We had to split up. We could not risk being caught together. Again, all I can say. But I came with the British airman, Cpl. Peter Newkirk, with the RAF."

Sarah cocked her head. "I didn't see a British one. There was just two Americans--a handsome Colonel, and Negro Sergeant--and a Frenchman--I'm guessing the one you were telling me about previously. But there was no British."

Carter frowned. "Oh, well, I suppose he wasn't fit yet. You see, he was badly injured as well…actually, he was worse off than me. He must be on some other floor."

"Well, this wing of the hospital is mostly American," said Sarah. "The other side is mostly British. He is most likely there. Yore friends are probably visiting him as well."

"Yeah," said Carter. "Can't wait to see him myself. Say, when can I get out of here anyway?'

"That would be when the doctor says you are up for it," she said. "And I suggest you listen to him. Still, you seem to be okay. I'd say at least a day or two. The doctor would just ant to make sure you've got your strength up. Though, yore friends mended pretty quickly too. They were kind of battered, but not shot like you. They slept for a whole two days!"

Carter looked up quickly. "How long have I been asleep?"

"A week," replied Sarah. "You really needed to heel, and you were obviously tired. But they brought you in, and you looked horiible. You were wet and bloody. You had all this blood on yore face, but when we cleaned you up, it found out it wasn't yore's."

"Yeah," said Carter slowly, deep in thought as he suddenly remembered what Newkirk had told him that night, and how sad he looked. "It wasn't."

"Hmmm," said Sarah. "Don't worry…I won't pry any further. It's a nasty habit I have, and does not suit my job around here very well."

"No," said Carter, smiling again. "Yore doing fine. Trust me, I can probably listen to you better than my friends."

Sarah chuckled. "Well, I must get back to my duties. When yore done, just let me know, and I'll take yore tray."

"Okay, thanks," said Carter. He watched Sarah walk off.

The rest of the day was rather boring. It had been around noon, when had awoke. He finished half the sandwich and ate a little bit of corn soup, and drank most of the milk. Truthfully, though, he could not eat any more. It was so much more than he had ever had in the past two years. Even with LeBeau's cooking, the quantity was not the same. When there were always hungry men around, you would never get exactly how much you wanted.

Sarah came and got his tray, and said nothing about the many leftovers. Then, she came back, and asked him if he wanted anything to do. He asked for a pencil and paper, to write a letter. This would be the first letter he would be able to write without so much of it being censored. Surely, he thought, since he was now on the right side of the front, they would not think it so hazardous any more. He wrote a long letter to his mother, knowing she would be glad to hear that he was out of the camp. Then, when he was done, Sarah brought him an envelope. He carefully folded up the letter, and placed it in the envelope, which he carefully sealed.

This had been a ritual with every letter he had sent since he had been in a prison camp. The letters there were so precious, and he had been lucky enough to get one nearly every time. He still remembered the faces of those who did not egt letters at times. The Colonel would read the names on the last letters, and then look up at those who were left empty handed sadly, and shake his head. Everyone would feel sorry for them, before submerging themselves in thoughts and images of home.

Sarah came and took the envelope, promising it would be sent out with next batch. She came back with a deck of cards.

"It can get awfully boring," she said. "This is all I could find."

"Thanks," said Carter.

The rest of the afternoon, Carter played solitaire, and pondered on how much he had changed in the camp. All around him, people bustled about, a thing he was common with. But he was not as interested in what they did. Before, he would have been, and even though he was still probably the one out of his group to change the least, he still knew he had. He felt that he was able to tolerate some things more. He had become accustomed to being in close quarters with people, and originally, some very tough conditions. He could concentrate, even with everything else happening. He was thinking clearly, and that was something not even his friends would believe.

Well…maybe Newkirk, who had been there in the end. When the Colonel had assigned them into pairs, he had been rather shocked to hear that he would be going with Newkirk. He was comfortable with any one of them, and had no problem putting his life in any of their hands. But when it was all coming down to the end, the Colonel was putting _them_ together. Besides, it was _always_ them fouling up everthing, and they would be the last ones out, to blow the tunnels!

Apparently, Carter had not been the only one surprised. Newkirk had raised his eyebrows and looked at Carter with a pleased smile. Kinch gave the Colonel that look saying he was unsure--even though he agreed with the Colonel more often than anyone else. And LeBeau muttered "Mon Dieu." In return Newkirk smacked him in the arm. After the tunnels were blown, they would meet up, go a little ways together, and then split up, to meet the sub at different points.

Carter thought about how he had not been the only one to change. Perhaps the one who had changed the most was Newkirk, for he had the least amount of compassion in the beginning, at least that of which he would show. But those last few weeks, when everything was winding down, he was more quiet, more polite, and just…not as rambunctious. He played the card games, and won less. People believed he was doing it on purpose, so they would win back all the money they owed him. He pulled fewer pranks and teased less, and people believed he was just doing it to respect everyone's wishes--that the end would go by smoothly. However, Carter had noticed, a change of attitude. Newkirk was not so much as doing it purposefully, but rather _for_ them, _meaning _it. That was when Carter knew, he would like to escape with no other person, but Newkirk, because of who he was.

When dinner came around, Carter ate even less, saying he had had his fill earlier. Sarah shrugged, and took it away, assuring him it would not go to waste. He nodded, feeling less guilty.

About an hour later, as it became dark outside, his visitors came.

They looked grand, he decided. Colonel Hogan and Kinch were in their dress uniforms, looking dashing. LeBeau was in some nice civilian clothes, his own uniform being repaired. Although they were thin, for their rations toward the end had been horrible, they seemed to be filling out as well as Carter. They smiled at him as he sat up quickly, setting the deck of cards aside. He did not notice the traces of sadness in their eyes, or the new lines that had come to their faces. They pulled up chairs around his bed: the Colonel and Kinch on one side, and LeBeau on the other.

"Boy, am I glad to see you guys," said Carter. "How are you?"

"How are we," asked Hogan. "You're the one who's been asleep for a week. Let's just say we're glad to see you're back up and smiling."

Carter grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, well, me and Peter had quite a run in with the Krauts. Though, I'm sure he told you about it all. He probably went on about what a hero he was too."

The other exchanged nervous and sad glances between one another quickly, but Carter still noticed them. He looked at each of them expectantly. LeBeau fidgeted with the playing cards, and Kinch looked down. Carter looked at the Colonel, who sat up and sighed.

"No," said Hogan, shaking his head. "He didn't. He didn't tell us anything. Carter--"

"What," asked Carter warily. "Hasn't he woken up yet? Is he okay?"

"Carter," said Hogan calmly. "Andrew, listen. Newkirk…he didn't wake up at all. Andrew, he…"

Sudden realization came over Carter. For a moment, he was still and silent, desperately trying to comprehend. Could he be wrong.

"No, Colonel," he said. "Newkirk is fine. He was fine."

Inside, he knew that "fine" was not true. He had known all along that Newkirk was gravely wounded, but they had made it. That meant Newkirk had to survive..._he just had to live._

Hogan shook his head sadly, some tears visible. "Andrew, I'm sorry."

"No," said Carter, shaking his head fiercely. "He's not! I won't believe it!" Tears were building up in his eyes.

"Andre," said LeBeau, in a raspy whisper. "I would not believe it either, but c'est vrai…it is true. Pierre passed away." Tears began to form in LeBeau's eyes.

Carter stared at LeBeau, shocked. _Newkirk…dead? How?_ Well, no, he knew how. _But why? They had made it. They had been free. Why did he have to die? Could he not have lived? Could he not have enjoyed his freedom?_

Carter looked back at the Colonel.

"When," he asked.

"On the sub," answered Hogan softly. "We almost lost you, too, to hypothermia. But Peter was too far. The gunshot wound had struck his stomach. There was nothing we could do."

"So that's it," asked Carter, still unable to grasp the meaning of Newkirk's death. "He just died form a bullet to the stomach? He just slowly died on the sub?"

It took a lot for Hogan to just nod.

Then, the tears spilled from Carter's eyes, and he shamefully buried his face in his hands. Hogan quickly sat on the bed and pulled Carter to him, letting the young man sob into his jacket.

"Why," they heard Carter ask, seemingly to no one. "What's the point in that? He was free!"

LeBeau could no longer take it, and buried his face in the sheets, and sobbed. Kinch sat back in his chair and looked to the ceiling. There were paintings of angels there, playing harps and supposedly watching over their patients. Kinch's lip began to tremble. He did not understand either. He sniffed, wiped his eyes, and then went back to stoically staring at the Colonel holding Carter.

When they broke apart, the Colonel looked down at Carter. Carter looked up, his eyes narrowed.

"I don't get it, Colonel," he said. "It just doesn't make any sense."

"A lot of things don't Andrew," answered Hogan. "But this one sure is the most annoying one."

Carter sat back, and looked up at the ceiling. Anger filled eyes scrutinized the angels.

"Why?"

***** ***** *****

Four days later, Carter was a pallbearer of Newkirk's coffin. He was at the head of the right hand side. Colonel Hogan was at the head of the left. Kinch was behind him, and LeBeau behind Carter. All four of them were back in dress uniforms. Behind LeBeau was Bert Garrison and behind Kinch, Thom Mackey, two childhood friends of Newkirk's, also in uniform of the British Army. Behind the coffin, walked Mavis Newkirk, the last Newkirk and the only family of Peter's anyone knew of that was left. She was very much like Peter, with dark brown hair and green eyes. She was only twenty years old, twelve years younger than her brother. She was beautiful even in the gaunt black with the veil over her face. An elderly man escorted her, whom Carter later learned was another friend of Peter's, Kingsley Warren, a pub owner who had taken in Peter and Mavis when they were younger.

Walking through the streets of East End, Carter saw that he knew very little about the man he called his friend. He guessed that not everyone who watched them go by knew Peter, but quite a few shouted his name, young and old alike. One thing they all had in common was that they were poor and dirty, obviously lower class.

The MPs saluted, though they knew not who lay in the casket. The men and boys took their hats as the casket passed, and the women and girls bowed their heads in silent prayer. They only walked around a block, past the pub and Peter's old house, finally coming to the church. It was one of the few churches left standing in East End, but it's windows were either shattered or cracked badly, and the doors were being repaired.

In the church, Carter was surprised to see about fifty people already present. By the time they went down the aisle and placed the casket in it's proper position, most of the church was filled. Carter looked at his comrades.

"It seems," said Hogan. "That Peter meant a lot to many people."

"I had no idea," said LeBeau. "He never said anything about home."

"All he ever talked about were pubs and stages," said Kinch.

"No," said Carter. "He talked about his sister. He loved her a lot."

The others looked at him. Carter was taking Newkirk's death the worst. It seemed that in those last weeks in camp, and the last days in Germany, or rather, his last days on Earth, Newkirk had shared more with Carter than anyone.

They sat down in the first row of pews, beside Bert, Thom, Kingsley, and Mavis. Other people were giving them funny looks, as outsiders. But they were not taken aback or hurt. They had all been treated by Newkirk the same way.

Carter did not listen to anything that was said. He would eventually be getting up to read, something he was quite unsure of. He thought the Colonel would have read, since the RAF had asked him to. Colonel Hogan was Newkirk's last commanding officer, though few really understood how real it had been in the camp. To others it would just look like a military send off. That was precisely why Hogan handed over the duty to Carter. He felt that, if Carter spoke, he would be able to make it more personal, since he would be speaking more from a friend's view point. Hogan counted himself a friend of Newkirk's, but not as close as Carter. Kinch and LeBeau readily agreed. Kinch was no public speaker, and though LeBeau had been close to the Englishman as well, he did not feel comfortable speaking in a room full of English, being a Frenchman and all.

So, Carter had thought it over carefully, but found really nothing moving to say, he thought. As he half-listened to a RAF General, one of the generals they answered to in London, Carter began to feel queasy. His little speech that he had prepared paled in comparison to the general's. Carter looked at Hogan uncomfortably.

"Sir," he began in a whisper. "Sir, I don't--"

"Nonsense," said Hogan, immediately realizing what Carter was thinking. "Look, this fella never even met Peter. You see, whatever you say will be much better than this man's thoughts. All he knows comes from official reports he has read, which barely mention any personal acts from any of you guys. You know the real Peter, and trust me, these people will know that. Look, these are Peter's people, and if they're anything like him, they'll most likely believe you instead of some general. If they know Peter, they know he hasn't made friends with this kind of general. I mean, look at him." Carter looked up and smiled weakly. The general was a plump fellow, with the usual, stereotype, perfect English accent, with a high, pompous voice, and a broad vocabulary. Hogan continued heartedly. "You go up there and say what you've got to say. We'll be right here. Just look at us if you have to."

"Right," breathed Carter. He went back to staring at the floor.

The next time he came around was when the Colonel patted his shoulder.

"Your turn, buddy," he said.

Carter sighed, and stood up. He straightened his dress uniform, and went to the steps of the altar. He genuflected, and then walked up the steps rather slowly, taking in some breaths. He turned around at the pulpit and looked up at the waiting crowd. They all looked up at him with different expressions. The children looked bored and tired, and the women were looking polite, and the men somewhere in between trying to be polite, and trying to look interested. Carter sort of expected this. Him being an American most likely made him an outsider to them, and the last thing they all wanted was to listen to an outsider speak about their friend. Carter swallowed, and thought to himself, _I sorta changed one of 'em, maybe I can make them think we're okay, too._

He unfolded a piece of paper that he had scrambled some stuff onto. It all looked stupid now, but he looked up defiantly anyway. He tried to think about all the times he had played a Gestapo officer, or Hitler for that matter. He had never been nervous then, so why now?

"Um, well, hello," he said first. He closed his eyes, and shook his head. "I'm Sergeant Andrew Carter, which doesn't mean much today. 'Cause today we're here to celebrate Peter's life. Now, I only knew him for about two-and-a-half years, which certainly sounds like nothing compared to most of you, who might've known Peter all his life. But, he changed in the war, like a lot of people and things did. I would say he changed for the better, but it's really up for you to decide. Anyway, there are only four people here today that really know how he changed. I'm one of them. The other three are Colonel Hogan, Kinch, and Louie down there." He motioned down to the other men in the front pew. The people looked over curiously, but some just ignored. Carter steadily went on. "We all knew Peter real well, even if we did only know him for a few years. Reason is, is because we went through the hardest times with one another. Peter never spoke much of life before the war, but he shared a few stories." A few people looked up, interested. "What I'm saying is, I know Peter had it rough here, and you all were with him, but I don't want you to think Peter stayed that way his whole life. Because, he really did change."

"Some things that didn't change, you will all be able to vouch for. He was a loyal friend. He was loyal man to king and country, in his own way. I think we all get my meaning there." That drew a few chuckles from the crowd, that was now relaxing. "He was always standing up for England, being the only Brit in our barracks. And he and Louie--a Frenchman and a good man--always stuck together for Europe, as well. It was fun: we tied to teach them our football, and they tried to teach us yours. And Peter never understood baseball. He always stuck to cricket." More people chuckled. "But then I asked one day if he had ever played cricket and he said, 'No way! That's such a wussy game!'" Everyone laughed at that. "Yeah, he said he preferred boxing or football. Said he made a lot of his money on boxing on the streets. And I tell ya, he could certainly hit. Saw him give a few guys a lickin'." A few of the boys cheered. "But, don't get me wrong. It was another Brit!" Everyone laughed again.

Carter was definitely more relaxed now, and he found himself in full swing.

"He was very protective too." A few people murmured in agreement. "If you didn't know our group well, you would've thought he hated me. I was always bugging him, and he would snap at me like a rabid dog sometimes. But, whenever something was going wrong…he was very willing to step in and do something about it, even if meant his life. In the end, it did." Carter saw one man cock his head sharply, wondering. It reminded Carter of Peter. He sighed, and went on. "He could have kept running, and left me. I would've been okay with that. You know, I even ordered him to keep going. But, Peter never was big on being ordered around."

Kingsley Warren snorted. "I'm not even sure tha' ruddy boy would've followed the good King's Charles's orders iffen they didn't make sense!" The Church roared with much needed laughter.

Once everyone settled down, Carter resumed. "I think that was why he was still a Corporal." The people laughed again. But, I sure know he deserved a promotion a lot more than some other people I know." There were quite a few heads that nodded in agreement at that. "Thing is, Peter never followed and order that meant someone else might get hurt. I think everyone tried it at one point or another…even Louie, and they're the same rank! But he would always say, 'We're not even in the same army!' And then, it was no point. He was just too stubborn."

"Stubbornness. There's good and bad too it." People murmured their agreement again. "When I think about it, it feels like Peter's stubbornness got him or all of us in trouble more than it ever helped us. But, that isn't true. The best incident I ever heard about, was when he and Louie were captured together in France. The Krauts kept tryin' to separate them, but Peter always managed to find away to get back in with Louie. Trust me, it's easier to get through captivity with someone to lean on. Very few that secluded themselves made it out alive. I had Peter and these men. And he had us."

Carter paused looking at the pulpit briefly, before he looked up again.

"I was the last one to talk to him." A heavy silence came over the room, like a blanket that is too thick, and suffocating. "We were on a little boat, leaving Germany. We were finally able to relax. Three Navy sailors had met us onshore, and now they were taking us away. We were finally safe. But, the damage had already been done. Thinking back, I think he knew he wasn't going to make it. He was so sad. When I first learned he had died, I thought he had been sad because he wasn't going to be able to live in the freedom he had fought for, for four years. Then, I thought back to what he had said to me. He said, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry for everything…for every bad word I've ever called you, for every time I made fun of you, for every time I blew you off, or every time I snapped at you…I'm sorry for all of it…Andrew, will you forgive me?"

The silence in the room was deafening. Carter looked down, tears beginning to build up. He wiped them away, and looked back up at the crowd. Every single person was waiting for his next words. Mavis was crying silently, as well as a few other women. LeBeau had tears streaming down his face. Kinch was looking straight ahead, but Carter knew he was listening. And the Colonel was looking at Carter, waiting with everyone else. Carter had never told his comrades Peter's final words.

"I told him that I had already forgiven him. I never saw such a relieved look on his face, or a surprised one for that matter. He must've been scared, too. But, the sadness was gone some. He had been sad because he thought I would not be able to forgive him. When I realized this…I thought to myself _Who would've thought!_"

Carter looked down at the pulpit, rubbing his eyes again. He looked up again, and saw people thinking.

"Before then, I had never known he had such compassion. Sure, I knew he loved me, but I never knew how deep it was. Those were the last words that came from his mouth. And two years earlier, maybe even three days earlier, I would have never bet even a penny that those would have been his last words. I would have never bet a penny for anything like that to be his last words. But, that's just like Peter…you think you have him figured out, pinned down…and the next time you turn around…he's doing something else. Peter always prided himself on keeping me and the others on our toes. Sometimes, he drove us nuts. But, I always liked him just the way he was."

Carter paused, and sighed. He saw that the crowd seemed very much at peace now. They seemed less stressed, as if something was finally over. And it was. Almost.

"For the last, I would like to read a verse from the Book of Ecclesiastes. Chapter Three:

_To everything there is a season, _

_A time for every purpose under heaven ;_

_A time to be born,_

_And a time to die;_

_A time to plant, _

_And a time to pluck what is planted;_

_A time to kill, _

_And a time to heal;_

_A time to break down, _

_And a time to build up;_

_A time to weep; _

_And a time to laugh; _

_A time to mourn, _

_And a time to dance;_

_A time to cast away stones, _

_And a time to gather stones; _

_A time to embrace, _

_And a time to refrain from embracing; _

_A time to gain, _

_And a time to lose; _

_A time to keep, _

_And a time to throw away; _

_A time to tear, _

_And a time to sew; _

_A time to keep silence, _

_And a time to speak; _

_A time to love, _

_And a time to hate; _

_A time of war, _

_And a time of peace._

Carter sighed as he finished the last syllable. He looked up. Everyone looked thoughtful.

"I'd say, that Peter did every single thing there. He may have done it on his own time, a time table we didn't all agree with…" A few people chuckled. "But, you see, that was made him, him. And I don't understood exactly why he had to die, and I probably never will. The only comfort I can take, is that it was his time, because the Lord called him. We'll just all have to wait and see, when the Lord calls us, and we'll understand better."

Carter nodded, and got down from the pulpit. He walked own the altar, genuflected again, and then looked at the casket, with the British flag draped over it. He smiled, somewhat at peace.


End file.
